Amsterdam Feeding

Today before breakfast the prayer group were congregated at the kitchen and were packing to leave. There was a picture of that girl that I spoke to yesterday that I wanted. The moment had passed so I took a few pictures here. Refreshing young people. When they left, conversation turned to celebrities who are virgins.
This was from the American guy who seemed to have a ready list of just such people, mostly American athletes. There was one in particular the name of whom is beyond me now, 30 year successful American football player, so loaded, and ‘good looking dude’ who’s a virgin. Who has never had sex in his life. Waiting to get married.
This American guy is a street artist who’s act is to stand naked on street corners posing with people who want their pictures taken with him and who apparently pay him handsomely for the privilege. I think he only wears a red Indian headdress with feathers and things. It cost him 700 dollars. He used to do this in New York, which is where he’s from, New York and Texas.
The prayer group had left a bit of a spread here and some small bibles and leaflets when they left. Oranges, bananas and the like so I tell the guys to help themselves.
It’s raining and people are congregating in the shelter of the kitchen area. The café is packed.
Back in the kitchen area, this dude with the clothes is dancing in the rain. He’s from a city somewhere in south Germany on the borders with Austria and Switzerland. Another German city I’d never heard of. It is a most luvly jubly place indeed, Alpine and what have you. It’s mushroom season there and he brought some with him, no doubt to put in his omlette. He gave me some to try later with my eggs when I have breakfast no doubt. I take a picture and offer him a banana, and he liked some orange too.
Still raining and I decide to take the day off and accept a smoke from an outstretched hand.
I offer that they help themselves to some fruit in exchange.
Australia turned up having learnt the art of stringing syllabi in a nice order, the two Germans from Berlin return, and Torbin walks past, I ask him about last night.
Last night there was a jazz band in the café and we settled in, Torbin, Neil, and myself. The talk turns to if you have to be a jazz fanatic to be a jazz musician and Frank Zappa. We have three small bottles of red wine and we’re smashed. Can’t remember the walk back to the tent, neither does anyone else. And feeling rough.
I offer him some fruit.
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